


The World Below

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: (on both sides), Exophilia, F/M, Female Reader, Loss of Virginity, Monster Boyfriend, Mutual Masturbation, Naga, Naga Boyfriend, Oral Sex, Penetration, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 01:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16882803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Today is your wedding day.Coming to the conclusion that you would rather die than marry came very quickly. Overhearing the servants speak about their own marriages of love and adoration did not change you overnight, but slowly picked away at your acceptance of your fate to be a brooding mare. When your engagement was announced at a banquet by your father, you stared into his eyes and decided that you would sooner pitch yourself over the grand hall’s balcony than go through with it.Coincidentally, today is also the day you will run away.





	The World Below

Today is your wedding day.

 

Not that you have ever met your husband-to-be, a prince of a distant land. The long procession of servants and guards had arrived at your parents’ estate yesterday, which you watched through your window. The members of the royal family stayed hidden in their litters with the curtains closed, bobbing up and down as the servants carried them slowly past the gate.

 

Coincidentally, today is also the day you will run away.

 

Coming to the conclusion that you would rather die than marry came very quickly. Overhearing the servants speak about their own marriages of love and adoration did not change you overnight, but slowly picked away at your acceptance of your fate to be a brooding mare. When your engagement was announced at a banquet by your father, you stared into his eyes and decided that you would sooner pitch yourself over the grand hall’s balcony than go through with it.

 

The sentiment did not fade as the wedding date drew closer. You had ample time to brew with those feelings, having to stand for hours on a pedestal while seamstresses crafted a white monstrosity. You had no one but your mind, of which your father once commented was too clever for a woman’s own good. So you thought, and you plotted while standing like a porcelain doll, piecing together a plan for escape.

 

Memories of playing somewhere when you were younger began to surface through your desperation, from a time before you were put in dresses and told to be a pretty lady- not that you are still bitter about that or anything. In the old chapel in the west corner of the castle, you remember coming upon an old catacomb that you followed straight down into the belly of the earth.

 

The entrance, you rediscovered one evening, is right underneath the altar in a Duke’s private sanctuary. You followed the passage for a time, small lantern in hand, marking dashes against the wall so that you would know your way back. At first, you did not believe it was the answer to your salvation. The tunnel you walked through was long, and you could not find any sign of an exit. But then you found the map.

 

It was in an old journal, chained to the shelf in the monastery’s library. You had been mindlessly flipping through religious texts, under the guise of studying for your role as wife and baby maker, but genuinely riding on the assumption that if there was any information on the catacombs, it might be with the oldest books the castle owns.

 

The lock was beyond your mediocre lockpicking abilities, but the librarian’s keys were easy to snatch from the center desk. The journal itself was also almost too easy to conceal, placed flat against your stomach under the layers of skirts that cover it completely.

 

The scrutiny you were under doubled, then tripled as the wedding date approached. You were forced to learn some kind of dance that was supposed to represent your subjugation to your new husband. It apparently is a tradition from his country. When you aren’t with your dancing instructor, you are in the main church reciting your carefully scripted wedding vows. Every time you try to deviate from the words you have been provided with, you feel your tutor’s switch take a hit at your legs.

 

Late at night, you would climb underneath your bed with an oil lamp and study the map and layout, unable to decipher the notes on the sides. The actual contents of the journal were in a language you did not recognize, nor felt like you could pursue. Paranoia had begun to dig its claws into your soul, confident that any odd remark your parents made was a hint that they knew what you were planning. The night guards multiplied in your wing. You couldn’t leave a more significant trail behind than you already had.

 

So that leaves you with today. After waking up absurdly early, you instruct your servant to bring your riding outfit, mentioning in passing that you would like to enjoy your last morning as a bachelorette on horseback. After getting into the light, easy to move in clothes, you quickly abscond from your room, grabbing a knapsack and dodging servants as you make your way down to the kitchen.

 

The feast preparations have been in the works since the week began. Cooks whisk around, pulling out dusty recipes and shouting out orders to servants to fetch this, find that. You hope that with your plain clothes and hood, no one would think twice about another person wandering through the busy kitchen. Especially if that person is slyly snagging food off passing carts.

 

Near the end of the cellar, you see a glass case, edged with gold. To its side is someone buffing the glass bottle of a hundred-year-old old spice wine, a traditional drink that even royalty can only afford for special occasions, for example, an occasional wedding. It is incredibly costly, and you have only had it once before.

 

And you are going to have it again because as soon as that servant’s back it turned, you swipe it off the table and run off down the hall.

 

Sprinting has never felt so exhilarating because you will be fucked straight up the ass if you get caught. Panicked yelling comes from behind you, the servant just noticing the bottle is missing. A buzz starts, people frantically looking around to see if it has fallen, and you even hear someone calling for a guard.

 

You jump into a large dumbwaiter and shut the door, pulling on the exposed ropes to lower the platform. During childhood, you found this to be a most effective way of evading capture. Even though growing up involved having to squeeze uncomfortably through the opening, you find that its usefulness has not expired.

 

Once you get to the floor below, you slide the wooden door slightly to check if the coast is clear. Satisfied, you roll out and start making your way down to the chapel. Since the main church is where your wedding is supposed to be held, no one of importance is anywhere near the much more modest sanctuary. And if anyone tries questioning you, you’ll tell them that you wish to meditate in silence to ready yourself for holy matrimony duties.

 

There is no one in sight as you slip into the chapel, the smoky air sending a wave of nostalgia through you. This was a place where you could hide for hours, leaving you to read or practice your hobbies in peace. No one thought to look for a roguish princess in a holy place.

 

The altar is in a private secondary chapel, left to the main sanctuary. It is always locked, but you have long since been able to pick it as easy as using the key since your younger years. As always, after a few moments of moving your hairpins, it clicks open with little resistance. You enter, careful to shut the door silently after you and relock it with your pins.

 

This part of the castle is much more ancient than the other wings, built for an older set of gods. The passageway under the altar must have served some purpose other than for runaway princesses, but you do not know what. The answer must be in the journal somewhere.

 

To open it, you grab a stick that lays to the side of the altar, flattened at the tip. You dig it into the crack between stones, then shimmy it around until you manage to lift the loose slab up using the makeshift leaver. You put the stick back, careful to leave it exactly as you found it, then lower yourself down the hole. The floor of the passage is high enough for you to easily haul yourself out, or to reach for the stone slab and pull it back in place.

 

Adjusting the strap on your bag, you start walking in the pitch dark, the path sloping downwards. You know part of the way, up until the passage splits, and you don’t want to waste lamp oil. A thrill runs through your blood, your fingers shaking as they reach up to feel the wall as you walk.

 

You are doing it. Part of you wants to throw up from a combination of terror and joy. Terror, at leaving behind everything you have known. Joy, at refusing to allow others to dictate your life. You are going to do something great, and everyone will be forced to accept the fact that you are more than a footnote in a treaty document.

 

Since you have not eaten, you allow yourself one sweet roll from your food sack. It is freshly baked and melts in your hungry mouth. Nothing has ever tasted better than this.

 

When you feel the wall end into a cross, you get out your oil lamp, using a small bit of flint and your knife to strike a flame. You settle down against the wall, sitting with your back to the cold stones while you assess the paths. One path leads right out to the gardens, which are being prepared for the feast. Another points to a chamber that you do not care to explore. The last one leads to what looks like an amphitheater, which has many different halls dug to and from it. One of them is supposed to span out to the sea, where you decide to either go into a nearby fishing village for the short term or go to the larger port and jump onto a ship from there.

 

The lamp, you decide, will stay on as you begin to cross in unfamiliar territory. As you continue on for what seems like hours, thirst starts to nag at your throat. You did bring a small waterskin, but you  _also_  brought that expensive high-end wine. The desire to splurge comes with running away, you suppose, as you twist the cork off with your knife.

 

The first sip is almost transcendental, a religious experience of sorts. You have had your fair share of drink, of course, but nothing you remember tastes as good as this. The liquid runs down your throat more smoothly than any alcohol should be allowed to, and it has so much flavor you can’t even chug it in good conscious.

 

You know that the amphitheater is supposed to be large just by judging the scale of the journal’s sketchings, but you are not adequately prepared to see just how gigantic. The light from the lantern barely illuminates anything around you, casting long shadows against the wall that jump and dance with every flicker of the flame.

 

Eerie does not entirely cover what you feel as you walk around, stopping just for a moment to stack some loose stones in a pile to mark the place you entered from. This was built for a thriving city, a place made to be crowded with people. When you walk near the wall, your dim light reveals rows and rows of seats, each section spiraling higher into the black.

 

You take another swig of wine, running it around your tongue while you pull out the journal. The next page has a more detailed drawing of the amphitheater, though the labeling of each section means nothing to you. What you are looking for is the same set of symbols around the passageway that is supposed to lead out into the beach.

 

Something moves in the corner of your eye. You quickly turn to look, holding out the lantern, but you see nothing but dust and rocks.

 

More wine, you decide, hoping it will calm your nerves. In front of you is a stretch of rocks that look like they must have formed a maze at some point. Though most of the rubble does not reach your shoulders, you still have little desire to trudge through it. Maybe you can climb the walls up to the rows of benches, even if they are much higher than you. You walk over to the closest one, set down the bottle of wine, and try finding a foothold.

 

All you end up with is a cut straight down the palm of your hand. Hissing with pain, you turn back to the maze and decide to muscle through it. You did not think to pack bandages, and there is no way in hell you are going back. The only thing you have is the lining of your shirt, which you grip in the hopes it will stop the bleeding.

 

Everything seems like it is going fine until you hear something slither behind you, though when you turn to look, there is nothing. It must just be your hyperactive imagination, then. Or maybe critters are crawling around, but certainly nothing that can harm you. You hope.

 

When you resume walking, so does the noise. Something substantial, following you across the stones in one, long movement. Your breathing quickens, and your muscles tense. As much as you like to think of yourself as a strong, independent woman, you have no skills to properly defend yourself. All you know how to do is flail your arms and hope that you hit something vital, which may have been effective against uptight tutors, but is not an ideal strategy in a real fight.

 

You whirl around, faster this time, but of course, there is no one there. The blood in your veins pounds loudly in your ears, and you feel a little dizzy. It could be from the cut, or your fear, or both. Taking a deep breath to muster your courage, you stand tall and face the darkness. “If you deem it necessary to follow me, at least show yourself so I may know whose company I have the pleasure of keeping.”

 

“Are you sssure?” The voice is a whisper, yet it resonates through your bones. It sounded young, yet dry, as though the person speaking had not drunk water in his lifetime. Low enough that it puts your nerves at ease, as though designed by the gods to relax those who hear it. The voice is masculine, yet soft in a way you can’t describe with words.

 

Before you can chalk it up to your imagination, you respond. “Yes.”

 

Out he comes from the shadows, his body… long… and scaly. He slithers around one of the crumbling walls and faces you, towering over you by at least a head, using his lengthy tale to prop himself up. You hold up the lantern with a shaking hand, to get a better view of his face. He has a severe look, as though he would rather not be bothered by your presence. Slitted irises that flicker tiger-orange by your weak light, a straight nose that sits in the direct center of them. Long dark hair, the precise color not detectable in the darkness. Perfect mouth,  _very_  nice lips. When he smiles, you notice two pristinely sharp fangs.

 

You would be struck dead before you had the chance to run. Maybe you are drunk, or maybe fright has awakened an incredibly nonchalant politician inside of you. Whatever the case, you use your injured hand grab the bottle of wine out of your satchel, holding it out as an offering. “Do you want some?”

 

He glances down at the bottle, then back at you. Lifting the bottle back to your mouth, you take an exaggerated sip to show it is perfectly drinkable, then offer it back again. The talons on the end of his fingers brush against your flesh as he accepts your gift, but he pauses. His hand cups yours, turning it over to assess the injury.

 

Dropping your hand after a moment of observance, he turns to the gift, holding it up close to his eyes and gently shaking the liquid around in the bottle to studying its contents. When he seems satisfied, his tongue snakes out of his mouth while he tips the wine forward, taking a little taste.

 

In the sharp, angled shadows, you can’t really tell if he is happy with the wine or if he could not care less. As your hand lifts up to try to shine more light onto the creature to get a better look, but he hisses at you, retreating back into the black.

 

“Sorry!” You call, holding your hand over the lantern’s light. “My apologies, please come back.”

 

To your surprise, he does, slithering back into view. “Don’t you fear me?” He asks, looking down at you with those tiger eyes.

 

“Should I have reason to?” You gaze up at him, hoping to memorize the way he appears, his scales and shape and color. His body is majestic, sleek, and powerful. An apex predator. A tail disappears from view, and you can’t even estimate how long he is.

 

There is a long pause. “No.” The word comes out in a breathy whisper.

 

An awkward silence descends on the both of you, neither of you breaking eye contact first. Once again, the politician in you wakes through your drunken haze and says, “I appear to be a little lost. You see, I am trying to get to the cliffside? Where the shore is. I know that one of these passages leads me out there but would you consider leading me there?”

 

“Your hand is injured,” he says instead. “Allow me to bandage it.”

 

Even better. “Oh, I would be most grateful.” You smile at him, adjusting the strap of your knapsack.

 

“Please follow me.” His body twists and he begins to weave around the rubble of the maze. You follow, having to move quickly around larger piles of stones because you can’t just slither over them like he can. When the two of you get to the wall, he offers you his hand. “May I?”

 

“Certainly?” You answer without a clue of what he means.

 

The end of a tail comes out of the darkness and wraps around your waist. Then he lifts you, almost effortlessly, up to the edge of the wall. You grip the loose bricks, swinging a leg over the side and hauling yourself onto the floor.

 

The creature lifts himself up in almost a jump, arms hanging on to the wall as slowly, his tail crawls lifts up and slips onto the floor as well. You watch as the snake part of him gathers in a steadily growing pile, until most of his weight has shifted to allow his torso to slide over the wall as well.

 

“This way, please.” He stands, in his snakey way, and starts moving towards one of the tunnels that.

 

You are quick to follow, jogging so that you can catch up to his front. “Do you have a name?”

 

“Do  _you_  have a name?” He echoes your question back at you instead.

 

Instead of your full title (which you would be loathed to use it ever again), you give him your first name. He repeats it, stressing the wrong letter and making it sound different. You do not correct him, though, because you feel like it is the kind of change you need. And you like the way it sounds, especially in his voice. “I told you mine. Now you tell me yours.” You pause, remembering your manners. “Please.”

 

“Kalil.”

 

“Kalil,” you repeat, running it over your tongue like wine. “Kalil. That’s a nice name. I like it.”

 

He glances at you sideways with a look you can’t decipher, before facing stoically to the front. “Thank you.” He sounds sincere, if slightly baffled.

 

Kalil leads you to a chamber that is closed off with a curtain. He reaches up to retrieve a small chain dangling from the ceiling, gesturing for you to hook your lantern onto the end. Once attached, he eases the chain back in place, hanging it from the ceiling and casting its dim light across the room. It is not much, but it is certainly something.

 

Compared to the rest of the ruins, Kalil’s room is very well kept. The walls look as though someone repaired them with mud, filling the holes and cracks with different material to keep it smooth. There is a chest to the side and a pile of blankets in the corner. There is a little fireplace with a kettle set on the front, underneath a hole that must carry the smoke out of the cavern. Odds and ends line the walls, some things you can recognize, like a loom, other things you do not have a clue what they could be for.

 

“Please sit.” Kalil gestures to a counter, little boxes with herbs open and ready for use. You put down your knapsack and climb on, your feet not touching the floor as you settle down.

 

An open book sits on a pedestal. He consults it carefully before taking your injured hand in his, looking over the cut. His tail comes up with the kettle, which he tips to pour water out the nozzle. Taking a rag with one hand, he gently scrapes away crusts of dried blood and grime, careful not to rub too hard. Even so, the water stings against your exposed wound, causing you to suck in your breath.

 

“You are doing well,” he encourages, patting your hand dry with a cloth. Next, he wipes a cooling salve across your cut, before adding a sprig of an unfamiliar herb on top. He bandages the herb onto your skin, weaving long strips of fabric around your hand like an expert. He ties the ends off and cuts the remainder with a knife, checking over his work to be sure it is satisfactory.

 

“Is it alright? Are the bandages too tight?” He asks, mouth puckered in concentration. He wiggles his fingers. “Can you do this?”

 

You copy the movement, the corners of your mouth tugging up. “This is marvelous, thank you so much.”

 

“It really is not.” He looks sheepish, ducking his head as he collects his supplies. Opening a large chest, he begins to put them away into sections, clearly labeled but in a language, you can’t understand. “I just follow the instructions.”

 

“Reading is one thing, being able to accomplish what you study is different. I truly mean what I said.” You slide off the counter and reach over to collect your knapsack, only to discover it tipped over and spilled its contents onto the floor. You begin to gather your things again.

 

Kalil reaches down and grabs the journal. “Where did you get this?” He sounded almost excited.

 

“In the old section of a library.” You stand back up, dusting your hands off on your pants. “Is it something of value to you?”

 

“I recognize the handwriting. The person who wrote this was a famous architect who helped design the colosseum.” He twists the page around and shows you one of the entries. “See?”

 

“I don’t.” You answer truthfully. “I was just using the maps to escape.” You cock your head, thinking. “If you can show me the way out, though, you can keep it. As thanks for bandaging me.”

 

Kalil hugs it to his chest. “Really?” He sounds almost as if he does not believe you.

 

“Really,” you confirm. “I don’t have any use for it outside of the diagrams. I can’t even read the words.”

 

Kalil opens the book again, hooded eyes scanning the page’s contents. Deep in thought, he closes it, then looks back up at you. “I could teach you.” His voice is low, and you almost do not catch the offer.

 

“Teach me?” You repeat, mulling over his statement.

 

“I could teach you the language.” He offers the book back in your direction. You hesitate, so he elaborates. “You said you were escaping. People will be looking for you now, especially out in the docks if you planned to leave the country. But they won’t find you here. You are the first person down here in forever, and you must have taken the only map with you.”

 

You look at the book he offers and think about it. What he says is true, the docks will be crawling with people waiting to cash in on your return. Here, though. No one would find you here. You can stay here for as long as it takes for this to blow over and then leave. That is actually the best possible outcome you could have hoped for when you first decided to run away.

 

“If you would not mind having me as company.” You accept his offer.

 

Kalil’s smile reveals his fangs. “I doubt I could grow tired of you.”

 

You scoff loudly, taking the bottle of wine and taking a large swig. “You’ve known me for barely a day. I wouldn’t make a wager.”

 

He takes it back from you, drinking some of it himself. “What are you willing to bet?”

 

You pry the wine bottle from his hands. “In three months time,” you proclaim dramatically, “if you are not utterly sick of me, then I will give thee a kiss. On the mouth.” You triumphantly drink some more.

 

He sputters, “surely you don’t mean it.”

 

“Oh, I meant it. So you better be on your best behavior, or you lose.” You jab a finger in his chest, grinning like a drunken idiot.

 

And with that, you begin your new life.

 

You are not sure what to call yourself. An assistant? An apprentice? A friend? Kalil wants to take it upon himself to keep the colosseum from crumbling down and collapsing, and so at night he goes out and collects buckets of clay-like mud for your to help repair the walls. Every day you work in a different room, slathering the mixture against exposed bricks while he drills you on the lexicon of the ancient language.

 

At night he will sometimes hunt, bringing back small game for you to help him prepare. You know nothing of cooking, but you watch over his shoulder and repeat his movements until you can do it well enough on your own.

 

As it turns out, there is an abundant supply of lamp oil in one of the rooms on the floor above you. Kalil just does not need light as much as you do, but with the reading lessons, you have had to light more than one lamp around you to make out the squiggly words.

 

He finds an easy book for you in his modest library, which is in the room across from where he sleeps. You lay out on his tail which he drapes across his objects like a hammock, carefully sounding out words. He only has to correct you every couple of pages, your grasp on the language accelerating with every lesson.

 

You have taken to only wearing your underclothes since the overcoat and shirt are too stiff to comfortably move the way your grueling work demands. Your muslin tunic is airy and easy to clean mud from and falls down just below your knees, so your legs are free to move around.

 

When you close the book, you find Kalil standing in the center of the room with a, dare you say, smug expression on his face. “What’s that look for?” You ask, slipping from your comfortable perch on his tail.

 

He holds out a flower for you. A dusty yellow rose with the tips of the petals bleeding into a stronger orange, the thorns carefully clipped away. “It’s been three months since you first came.”

 

Of course you remember what that means. Your face turns red with embarrassment as you accept the flower graciously. “I see. I don’t suppose you are fixing to kick me out, are you?”

 

“Not unless you want to leave.” His talons brush against your skin as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But you can forget about the silly wager. I think you were drunk.”

 

You place the flower right next to the book. “Hold still.” Placing hands on either side of his shoulders, you try to figure out the best way to hold your end of the deal. You pop up on your toes, then pull him down slightly to meet you halfway.

 

Kalil’s mouth is sweet, lips fitting against yours like they were sculpted for your pleasure. You pull back, almost burning with both nervousness and exhilaration. “I’ve never kissed anyone before.” You admit, looking down over at the flower he gave you.

“That was… nice. Was it nice for you?” He asks, concern filling his voice.

 

“Yes.” You pull him back down, kissing him once more. His hands find your hips, and he holds you possessively against him, his mouth teasing yours, leaving you breathless. You move on of his hands to your thigh, towards the ache between your legs.

 

You are not entirely certain how you ended up on the floor. Maybe you pushed him, maybe he gently guided you down. But you are suddenly straddling him, tongue brushing against his, grinding your bodies together. It feels so good, nothing like when you touched yourself beneath covers at night. Having someone to reciprocate your kisses and moans sends shivers through your body, your core hot and wet.

 

He pulls back from your mouth and kisses your neck, moving down from your jawline to your collarbone, pushing the tunic out of the way. Your nipples are hard and prominent, pressing up against the fabric. His own waist starts to bulge in the center, and your fingers are quick to find what it offers.

 

Precum coats your fingers as you run them down to the quivering slit, a weeping cock head slowly protruding forward. Hunger for something unknown burns in your stomach. When you were by yourself, it meant that you needed to rub circles around you little nub, so you take his hand and guide it there.

 

You breathe a sigh of relief when his fingers find it, bucking your hips against his hand. “Does that… feel good?” He asks, using his thumb to move up and down, causing little spasms of pleasure to roll through your body.

 

“Yes.” You whimper, pulling off your tunic and throwing it to the side. You want him- no,  _need_  him to see you.

 

Lust takes over his features as he looks you over, eyes roaming down from your collarbone, breasts, stomach, and thighs. You look down to see what has been bobbing against your leg and see two thick shafts, bright red at the tip and weeping with slime.

 

The only time you have ever seen cocks in real life was in paintings, so of course, you need a good long look. You slip down from his waist, bending over so you can easily see everything. His cocks emerged from a slit in his middle, invisible when not aroused. You run your finger over the shaft and hear him whimper.

 

“What are you- why are you,” Kalil looks down at your body, eyes lidded and pupils wide.

 

“Do you like it?” You ask, running your finger down to where the slit it. It is wet and hot, pulsing against your hand as if begging for more.

 

He moans, hips bucking. “Yes. Please… please don’t stop.”

 

You bend down further and lick one of the tips. Kalil whimpers and the sound is like music to your ears. Wanting to see how much you can undo him, you take the entire head into your mouth and suck. He writhes beneath you, gasping like you are drowning him. You take in as much as your throat allows, before withdrawing with a satisfied look on your face. Then you work on the other one, running your tongue around the tip, tongue dragging down to the slit. You lick the pocket of flesh, gently pumping one of his cocks with your hand.

 

He cries out, and something white comes out of his cocks. It spurts up onto his stomach and chest, sliding down in gobs. The lower cock is pointed downwards towards your stomach and coats you in its cum as well, hot and strange against your skin.

 

“I’m sorry,” Kalil whispers, “I got you all dirty. I didn’t mean to.”

 

You watch as his half hard cocks try to recede back into his slit. “I don’t mind, as long as you bathe me later.” Your grin is positively wicked as you begin to grind your bare pussy against his half hard shafts, teasing them out again.

 

Instead of laying still, Kalil flips you over onto the floor. “It’s my turn, then. Lay back.”

 

The instructions are hard to follow, especially since you want to watch him explore your body. His mouth kisses one of your nipples, making you mewl and arch your back in pleasure. Kalil shifts to your other breast, taking it into his mouth and sucking. His thumb finds your clit, and he rubs it gently, almost too much yet not enough at the same time.

 

His forked tongue flickers from your breast to your bellybutton, leaving a trail of little kisses in its wake. When he gets to your folds, he uses his finger to open them up so he can look at you. He kisses your folds, almost chaste, as though worshipping your flesh. “You are so beautiful.” His voice is a whisper.

 

“Kalil.” You moan, a prayer, spreading your legs for him.

 

He latches onto your clit, sucking it the way you sucked on his cock. You arch your back and whimper, his movements sending shockwaves through your spine. Scaled arms wrap around your hips to keep you still as his tongue swirls around your folds. He licks and kisses and teases, always pulling away or slowing down just before you reach the edge.

 

“I’m burning for you,” Kalil whimpers, kissing his way back up your body. The two cocks have become hard again, bobbing against your thigh. Precum drips against your skin, his desperation making him pant and shudder at the slightest touch. “I want to be inside of you, please, will you let me?”

 

Your fingers reach down, massaging one of the cocks, guiding it to your entrance. “I need you,” you breathe in his ear. Both his twitching shafts beg for you at your words. The number of real-life cocks you have seen before today is nil since your virginity was to be auctioned off, but you are sure he is large.

 

He eases the head in carefully, giving your neck slow, open-mouthed kisses. You whimper, because at first there is pain, especially in his initial thrust, but it melts away. He is gentle and loving, stopping midway, asking, “Are you alright? Is this fine?”

 

You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his jawline. “It’s nice. Please don’t stop.”

 

Kalil groans, his fangs dripping with venom, and he keeps moving his hips forward until he is sheathed within you. “You feel so good.” His voice is strained with pleasure, his hands braced on either side of you. The second cock is on your belly, in between your bodies. Slowly, he withdraws from your core, pulling back to the head. Then he slides back in, still careful not to hurt you.

 

The second thrust is less uncomfortable than the first, the pain fading into little sparks of pleasure much quicker than before. Kalil presses his mouth against yours in a kiss, reminding you that he is here, anchoring you in reality. His cock stretches you, filling you in a way your fingers never could on their own.

 

“More.” Your voice is a whisper, your hips moving up to help him thrust. He obliges you, moving in and out, awkward at first but quickly finding a rhythm. He moans your name, fervently, as though in worship. His tail snakes between your legs and rubs against your clit. Everything is pleasure and heat, as he moves to your body’s demands and brings you over an edge you had previously only traveled yourself.

 

He comes with you, his heat filling your insides, sending hot spasms through your body. You roll your head back and cry out, holding onto him for dear life as your nerves sing for him.

 

Long after, he holds you in his arms, face buried in your neck, memorizing your scent. “Stay with me. Please.”

 

You turn to face him cupping his face in your hands. “As long as I am with you,” you kiss both his cheeks, then his lips, “I don’t care where I am.”

**Author's Note:**

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